


Hunger Strike

by r0landblum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ambiguous Gender Reader, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Martin Whitly Reader, Martin Whitly x reader - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:34:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r0landblum/pseuds/r0landblum
Summary: Mildly dubious consent applies only to some of the feeding, the sexual part of the fic will be consensual.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 11





	Hunger Strike

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly dubious consent applies only to some of the feeding, the sexual part of the fic will be consensual.

‘Stop acting up and eat your dinner, Martin.’

It was a sunny day in New York City. Or at least that’s what the weather report said.  
Down here in Martin Whitly’s cell whatever light there was turns pallid as it seeps to the floor through the basement windows. It sticks to the tackily painted red walls like thick, opaque glue.

It’s this cell you are stuck in, or rather assigned to, watching a world renowned serial killer refuse to eat his mashed potato. 

He has been keeping up this act for 4 days. 

‘Maybe if you gave me back certain privileges I wouldn’t make such a scene’ he said curtly with a contained yet expressive gesture of his wrist. This was typical of the way he moved, like he was still wearing his handcuffs and needed to be careful to not nick his skin on the cool, thin metal. 

‘You’d always find a way to cause a scene, Martin’ you huffed from your guard’s corner. Your chair was awfully uncomfortable, you make a note to tell the superintendent.

Martin reacts to your quip with a weak smile. ‘Oh this is not a scene, not yet. I could stop drinking water and THEN it would be a scene. My body is only just entering ketosis, I still have a month left in me’ 

‘Oh come on, a hunger strike? This isn’t the 20th century. We can easily just hook you up to feeding tubes. Not that it isn’t a massive inconvenience but…’

‘Exactly’ his voice shimmered. He’s looking down at his food trying to conceal a crazed expression. The shine in his eyes still remained, but like the mid-afternoon daylight in this room, he is pale. 

‘Whitly’ you sigh ‘eat your damn fo-’

‘I want my wife’ 

‘Oh Martin. At this point, I’m your wife’ you joke flatly. He can’t help himself but chuckle. 

‘Don’t flirt with me, officer’ 

Little did he know you hadn’t even begun. 

You stand and make your way towards him at a purposeful slow speed. He shifts in his seat, and looks up at you when you reach him.

‘If you’re not going to feed yourself I guess we better get these cuffs back on you then.’

‘Yes, I guess so.’ he retorts offhandedly.  
His hands were already clasped over his waning stomach, thumbs rubbing up against one another. In swift and well practised movements, you bound his wrists in metal. 

Watching a man so formidable confined like this was like watching a great white shark remain perfectly still; unsettling, anticipatory. His colourless eyes regarded you with perfect placidity but underneath you could sense the Devil. You had to lean down to get to his hands comfortably, his face was close and that could have been dangerous if he wanted it to be. It was undeniable that this excited you.

Straightening up, you shoot a look at the plastic tray that contained a less than desirable sausage casserole and mash.

‘It’s such a shame to see you like this, doctor’ you said, now regarding his sitting form. You saw something happen behind his eyes when you called him by his medical title, a spark of satisfaction that caused a tug at the side of his mouth. 

‘Oh really, why’s that?’ Martin asked melodically, predictably thawing and growing interested at the respect you were offering him.  
You had to stifle a vocalisation of satisfaction, keep your demeanor balanced. If you wanted to win a game against Martin Whitly it took the skills of poker. 

‘A man of quality such as yourself just wasting away? I don’t think I can allow that…’ 

‘Flattery?’ he burst out a short laugh ‘ is this what this has come to?’

You say nothing but lower your head in faux embarrassment. You need to let him think he’s sussed you out. 

You say nothing for a few seconds before continuing delicately. ‘Today was meant to be your conjugal visit wasn’t it?’ Your fingers place themselves gently on the soft plastic cutlery that sat untouched beside the tray. 

Martin gruffed, ‘you know fine well it was’.

Keeping your movements slow, like a lion stalking a gazelle, you take hold of the prison spoon. Of course the Surgeon knows what you’re doing but this isn’t about hiding, this is about not startling. This is also very, very much about savouring your own enjoyment.

‘What if...I tell you I could get you that visit back?’  
You lifted the now loaded spoon so that a bitesize portion of the casserole hovered mere inches away from his lips. He looked at the spoon then looked back at you with consideration, sensing he was somewhat taken aback. 

‘Well…’  
The day had started to shift into the later afternoon and the rays of light grew stronger and warmer in tone, casting dramatic shadows and causing the grey in his beard and curls to glimmer if they caught it. 

What was also glimmering was the cold and congealed gravy on the spoon that harboured a bite sized piece of sausage. It moved closer to Martin’s mouth as you sensed his budding co-operation - at least he didn’t seem to be protesting. In fact he barely moved anything but his eyes. You scraped slowly the spoon across his bottom lip, stopping him from finishing his sentence, making sure some of the sauce got caught in the bristles of his moustache.

‘Come on, you know you’re hungry, doctor’ 

Sure enough, Martin parted his lips and allowed you to insert the spoon inside his mouth. When far enough inside, his lips contracted around the stem, allowing you to pull the utensil out empty from his tightened orifice. You find this alone so erotic that your heart starts thumping heavily underneath your starched uniform. 

He swallows and can’t help shut his eyes in relief of breaking his fast. Even prison food could tempt a man after 4 days. He looked dramatic, ethereal but somewhat scorned, like a Michaelangelo, but only because his countenance did not know how to be sheepish. 

‘Happy now?’ he spat after he swallowed.

‘Nearly.’ 

You dipped the spoon back into the food preparing to give him a second mouthful, but Martin shuffled his seat back in objection. 

‘I think I can manage the rest on my own, I am a grown man after all.’ you can feel the contempt rising in his voice. There was also a hint of interest, but that’s not what he was trying to get you to focus on.  
Ignoring him, you lift the spoon to his mouth again and he stands up in one swift and admittedly intimidating motion. Fighting against your racing heart, you keep your composure and maintain eye-contact. 

‘Don’t make me break my side of the bargain, Whitly.’ you growled ‘Sit. Down.’

To your partial surprise, he obeys. You feel a further spike of adrenaline as you relish in being in control. 

The time of stalking is over, you’ve already gone in for the kill, you almost shove the spoon into Martin’s mouth and he has to pull back his head to stop himself from choking on it.  
Brown sauce, diluted with spit spills over his lips where he’s coughed out in surprise. Another portion is swallowed. He looks furious.

‘Could you hand me a napkin?’ he asks, lifting his cuffed hands out towards you.

‘No.’ 

His hands hang there is disbelief at your denial of his request. You watched the wetness from his lips run down to pool in the dark mass of hair that begins his beard.  
‘This is so demeaning’

You smirk. ‘Oh Martin, we’re only just getting started’.


End file.
